Twitlight
by Mariagoner
Summary: Sometimes it takes a bi-atch on heels with an axe to grind and an aversion to sparkles and sunshine to get the job done. An AU of the first book with Rosalie being cast in Bella's place. Expect Rosalie/Edward, possibly Rosalie/Emmett, and the other cast.
1. Prologue

So. What do you do when you start reading a new book series, find yourself simultaneously loving some bits of it and cheerfully mocking others and wondering what would happen if the writers of Blackadder, rather than Stephanie Meyers, had written said series?

Why, you write an AU of the book that's somewhere between a loving homage and a parody and you bump off sweet Bella Swan as the main character in favor of having Rosalie Hale as the far less credulous and far more snarky POV!

After all, lovely as Bella is, sometimes it's fun to have a bitch on heels with an axe to grind and an aversion to sparkles and sunshine as your protagonist. Which is why, with any luck, this new series is gong to be fun as hell to write in the next few weeks.

In any case, this is the first time I'm dipping my toes into a new fandom after spending a _long_ time immersed in FFXII. Feedback is much appreciated here!

* * *

**Title: Twitlight, Prologue  
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII  
Series: Twitlight  
Characters/Pairings: Rosalie, Cast, Other Pairings TBA  
Rating: Hard R, Later NC-17  
Summary: Sometimes it takes a bitch on heels with an axe to grind and an aversion to sparkles and sunshine to get the job done. An AU of the first book with Rosalie being cast in Bella's place. Essentially, a series for people who both love and love to laugh at the series.  
Note: Beware harsh language, sexual innuendo, later sexual actions, and the possibilities of insatiable vampire hunger being temporarily stopped by hard rubber ball gags later in the series.**

* * *

If anyone had asked Rosalie Lillian Hale ahead of time about how she hoped to die, she'd have a few definite retorts prepared in her mind.

First, of course, she'd be tempted to smack the living squalling baby Ganesha right out whatever sick bastard asked her that question in the first place. What kind of conversation led to something like that, anyway? 'Hey, nice to meet you, how are you, how do you do, how are you planning to join the choir invisible and become an ex-person any day?' Unless a person made a point of hanging out in crypts for recreation anyway-- and right now, she unfortunately couldn't deny she'd been having out with a crowd that thought of that sort of thing as a typical Saturday night-- it didn't strike her as a normal (or even non-psychotic) conversational gambit.

But still, if someone had asked-- and she didn't immediately tell them to seek therapy for whatever bizarre brain chemistry fluctuations they must have been wallowing in to think that _that_ as an appropriate topic for chit-chat-- she would probably have to admit to wanting to die at the ripe old age of ninety, surrounded by loving children and broken grand-children and probably some extremely potent bottles of liquor stashed around under her poufy old lady bed things.

She really hadn't expected to start pushing daisies at the ripe old age of seventeen, however, because of one tragic decision to relocate to the moist, damp, constantly cloudy arm-pit of America, one horrible mistake of attracting an insanely good looking-- as well as possibly insane-- immortal inamorata and one wrong step that led to being kidnapped by a vampire-vampire-hunter with a serious case of lock-jaw and a way of juggling sharp things that really, truly made her want to wet her already scrunched up panties.

"Ah fuck," Rosalie groaned. "I'm going to die young and I'm not even going to leave a pretty corpse. I thought that was the whole point of kicking the bucket in sort of way."

And with a flourish, the hunter before her gestured with near reptilian grace at the instruments in his hands now.

"Don't worry, darling," he murmured. "I'll do my best to the preserve the prettiest parts. Even a vampire can appreciate such mortal beauty."

And then, with another flourish, he sauntered forward with-- a smile on his face and malice in his heart and cutting blades gripped in his hands expertly.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Fun fact. I was going to name this series Twatlight at first but ceased and desisted only out of common decency. And yes, Rosalie is a bitch. But she's such an _entertaining_ bitch. You have to give her that, if nothing else. ;)

A note on pairings-- I don't really have any yet. I thought it might be interesting to see Rosalie/Edward develop (and in a _very_ different direction from Bella/Edward as well!)… but on the other hand, I do love me some Emmett as well. Er… any thoughts here? Pick one or the other? Or maybe try… combining them into some way, or something?

Also… feedback? Questions? Comments? Constructive criticism? All are always welcomed, since I'm nervous as hell at the thought of entering a new fandom. Encouragement is always welcome here!

* * *


	2. Chapter 1

Leaving to Chicago just today, so it'll be a bit before I can get back to everyone. But in the mean-time, have another chapter of snarky, supernatural madness. And much love to both **jennamajare** and **moontear** for beta-in the hell out of this. The madness wouldn't be possible without you darlings.

As always, comments, concrit and questions are ferociously welcome. And I've got a few specific questions to ask at the end of this, actually...

* * *

**Title: Twitlight, Chapter 1  
Fandom: Twilight  
Series: Twitlight  
Characters/Pairings: Rosalie/Edward, Cast, Other Pairings TBA  
Rating: Hard R, Later NC-17  
Summary: Sometimes it takes a bitch on heels with an axe to grind and an aversion to sparkles and sunshine to get the job done. An AU of the first book with Rosalie being cast in Bella's place. Essentially, a series for people who both love and love to laugh at the series.  
Note: Beware harsh language, sexual innuendo, later sexual actions, and the possibilities of insatiable vampire hunger being temporarily stopped by hard rubber ball gags later in the series.**

* * *

Once upon a time, in a kingdom near the ocean, there lived a fair princess who had come back to her native home in the throes of utter defeat. She was the daughter of a cunning queen who had once mated with and then captured the treasures of a king who called the land his home for all of the little princess's years. And though the princess had voluntarily left the place for far grander surroundings, she eventually found her way back to her birth-right in much the way lemmings eventually found themselves edging back into the arms of the sea. And in the end, though there would be much grumbling and bitching and shaking of her fist towards the sky for having been returned to a dead-end town where the sun didn't shine in a way that had nothing to do with one's privies, she would eventually have to concede that her journey home had eventually set her free.

After all, she would never learned about the secrets of the supernatural and that of its dark, fantastical, and literally sparkly creatures otherwise. And that was the sort of priceless knowledge that made any amount of the sweat, blood, booze and tears she'd end up excreting on her quest to understand worthwhile and even ennobling.

But that, of course, only came sometime during the middle of her story. Right now, while still at the beginning of the revelations would soon enough change her world, the beautiful princess found herself twitching slightly as she stared at the blood-red monstrosity that squatted before her presently.

"So," the maiden said, rolling the word around in her practiced mouth like a roll with a creamy center she wasn't fully willing to explore. (Which was, thanks to previous adventures with certain sweaty beasts, a sensation that she was all too familiar with by the age of seventeen.) "This is supposed to be a... well… a… you know? With the.. and the… everything?"

And her father, the slightly insolvent king, merely chuckled. "Yes, this is indeed what we humble folks from a small town call a _truck._ See how it's slightly bigger than a-- what would you call it-- a _car_? That's the kind of distinction we small town hicks like to make, away from the big city. Though I'm sure that's the kind of thing it'll take you a while to adjust to here."

The lovely princess-- otherwise known as Rosalie, Rosie, and (occasionally) That Man-Stealing, No-Good, Panty-Flinging Harpy-- had to twitch a little. She'd spent nearly a full decade spent living apart from her father and somehow, he could still read her like a book. Either he had the cat-like senses of a ninja or she was becoming completely and utterly predictable-- which was, in her view, only slight less deadly than suddenly turning thirty.

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "I know it's a truck. But where the hell did you get it from, honestly?"

She could nearly feel her father-- also known as Vincent Hale, sheriff of the town and a damn good shot when he had to be-- give a near identical twitch of his shoulder right behind her. "A present from Billy Black, down at La Push. Fishing buddy who offered to sell it to me so my kid could use it when she got down from New York to Forks once more."

At that, she involuntarily twitched again and turned to warily stare at him. "And what did he bribe you with to make you believe I'd actually be happy with _this_ piece of junk?" Especially when she had a very sweet Porsche back home that she had been forced to leave behind and wept over more than her perpetually sodden flake of a mother and certainly more than her flaming asshole of a current step-father. If she ever had the chance to beat that bastard to death with a two-by-four with a rusty, tetanus-rich nail sticking out of it, she'd take it gratefully.

Her real father's mouth jerked in a smile that reminded herself rather of a cat's once it found itself staring up at an owner who didn't appreciate a gift that came with a severed spinal cord. "You think anyone would ever have to bribe me to get my little girl a homecoming present for finally coming back home?"

She snorted. Clearly, whatever bullshit genes flowed rich and thick through her genetic code hadn't come from the paternal side of her family. "They would have to if they knew anything about me. And if Billy's a fishing buddy, then he's a drinking buddy. And if he's a drinking buddy, I know he knows _all_ about me from your mutual man-bitchery. So... carton of cigs? Couple of cases of beer? Or just a few boxes of donuts?"

Her father's stomach took that fortuitous moment to gurgle. And at that, Rosalie had to reluctantly smile as an even wider grin broke out over her father's face. "Caught me in the act again, Roe?"

Amused though she was, she had to respond. "God, dad. You're like the Police Chief Wiggum of Washington State. You'd probably let spree murderers go free if they could distract you with enough cases of beer and pretzels while they made their escape out the back way."

And at that her father gave up and laughed outright and it was at that point that the little princess had to shrug and accept the damn car and any other curve-balls fate felt like sending her way.

Not that that was anything out of the ordinary of course, of course. But before she could start cueing up her chunky-glasses-mournful-guitar-guy soundtrack in her mind and begin wallowing in misery, her dad stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. And when she looked up into his dark, glimmering, violet-grey eyes-- the one physical feature she had gotten from him, which doomed her to a life of bifocals once she turned thirty-- she was reminded of what she had escaped from, as well as why she was in Forks presently.

"I'm really happy you came back, Rosie-- for whatever reason you had in mind here. And I know I don't have the resources your mother has after the last two or three divorces--"

(Actually, there had been four, but she could understand the impulse to forget the last one entirely.)

"--But I do want you to feel at home when you're living with me. Forks isn't like New York; you'll need a set of wheels to get around and something like a Porsche just won't do around these back woods. And-- you don't mind the truck that much, do you?"

It took some doing to suppress her first, awful, ungrateful impulse, which was to tell her dad that it absolutely did offend every single modicum of taste, class and panache in her body, which ran in a complex web of nouveau riche taste to and from her bones and blood stream. After all-- it was squat. It looked torpid. It was down-right, bat-shit, insect-ejaculating _ugly_. It looked like the sort of thing white-trash would decorate with mud flaps and it probably guzzled gas greedily enough to haunt Al Gore's dreams. It had all the low-key class and charm of a leopard print thong tied around a stripper's poll, accompanied by a pair of lucite heels.

But her dad had gotten it for her-- and her wasn't anywhere near rich either. He'd gotten it for her because he had wanted her back home after hearing about what had happened, because he knew there was nothing else he could do to help his kid currently. He was one of only five people in the world who knew the real reason why she was fleeing to her birth town after all these years. And though he had been-- disappointed about her chickenshit response to it, he'd still taken her back gratefully.

He might not get her some… most… practically any of the time-- but by god did he always give the job of trying to decipher her mercurial mind the ol' community college try. And despite the fact that he had all the taste of a blind epileptic undergoing a fever dream, he still wanted her to feel at home with him.

He still cared enough to open his arms out presently.

She wished she could have taken that as a given. But somehow, it still surprised the hell out of her that he'd do this, even after all the disappointments she'd served up and even after all these years.

Surprised and kind of--

It was the sort of thing that made her feel almost--

Maybe she ought to even try to be--

So Rosalie let the withering responses she had half come up with lie and die quietly in her mind, only to turn to her father with that brilliant smile that had never failed to charm the men in her life-- however fucked up that made things occasionally. "Sure, dad. It's fine. In fact, it's-- more than fine. Kinda cute in that retro-ugly way that came into style recently. All I have to do now is call it vintage and pretend I'm from Brooklyn, or something. And-- thanks. For getting it for me.. I mean, know you're kinda strapped on cash and--"

From the slightly frozen look that came on her father's face after that, she realized she couldn't have questioned his masculinity more if she had thrown a tube of lipstick at him and accused him of prancing around in ladies' underwear in the dark. So she plastered on another charming smile, did a coy hair-flip-- sure, this was her father, but any man who couldn't appreciate a hair-flip from her had to be dead from the forehead down-- and did her best to look as though she believed what she was saying.

"It's-- interesting. A real fixer-upper, actually. It'll take me some time to customize it but it'll really be… _something_ once I'm through with it. And all I really want to do now--"

Somehow, actual, genuine smiles found a way towards both of their faces as she reached out for the truck's key.

"--Is take this baby for a test-spin and see how well it works with me."

* * *

Which was how, twenty minutes later, she found herself all of five miles away from her starting point, having circled round and round her house until she had broken down and taken a cigarette break, watching the stars hang in the panoramic sky and wondering if this was the result of bad karma or her fate.

Even a few months ago, after all, she'd never have predicted she'd end up here, suddenly going from being part of the glitter of New York to being all but exiled into the boonies, banished into a tourist-trap town with the pretension of being a city. And remembering how she had somehow gone from living in the capital of the goddamn world to a place primarily crowded with trees and the classiest of beer repositiories made the soft corona of light coming from the fireflies surrounding her go even hazier through her tears.

Stupid, she knew, to drive out in the middle of the goddamn woods to weep like a kid that had been denied something it had wanted badly. And maybe that really _was_ the truth of the matter, adding of a few years. But she knew as well as any girl could that nothing came from crying by herself. Sure, doing it in front of others could occasionally get her what she wanted, if she could pull it off with sufficient panache.

But in the dark, where nobody else could see…

What had happened didn't seem fair. And it really _wasn't_. But she didn't know a way to go back to the past and make it right either.

And she could have spent the whole night smoking drearily while staring at the horribly lovely stars before her and wondering why she'd been denied the chance to launch into orbit with them. But then, sucking a deep breath in and inhaling one last lung-full of sweetly cancerous smoke, Rosalie threw her cigarette butt out the window and then launched her actual rear out of the truck.

After all, improvements would have to be made eventually. Might as well start here, instead of moping.

Standing in front of the monstrosity with bare arms and eyes equally crossed, Rosalie had to wonder if her current vehicle had made some sort of demonic pact with Bezelbub to be both menacingly ugly yet oddly efficient. It guzzled far less gas than she had assumed it would have and underneath the bulky exterior, the engine purred along like a tiger that had recently been fed something that had once had opposable thumbs and superior memory processing.

So right now, she definitely was wondering if the ol' Billy Black (even the _name_ was suspicious-- the first was classic Americana while the last one was just the _tiniest_ bit ominous and foreboding) had maybe fed his family to it for the chance to live again after his early demise. And though the possibility was sort of terrifying (after all, the frequently drunk chick that flashed herself all over the place practically never survived those kinds of horror stories), Rosalie had to admit that it _did_ seem kinda electrifying to face up against that sort of supernatural entity.

After all, facing the exciting and absolutely non-existent Washington night life made the possibility of a gruesome and appropriately cinematic death seem damn near exciting. And she could always recant her heathenish, panty-flinging, Rated-R-for-Adult-Content way of life if it actually turned out to be haunted, couldn't she?

So, grinning a bit in anticipation, she wriggled her trusty switch-blade out of the crevices of her scandalously short skirt, nicked herself on the finger and preceded to bleed a bit on the top of her truck, almost _willing_ something to happen as though through sheer force of will.

And then she waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

And finally wondered, dully, if the demonic forces of darkness were being exceptionally slow to suckle her blood off its dented crimson surface because of a back-log in hell or because they figured she already belonged to them and didn't need this to collect her soul in the future.

Fuck. This whole scenario would have been so much more interesting if it'd been written by Stephen King.

So finally, she grunted, kicked the already dented front fender of her truck and then ending up groaning and half-falling over from the pain. Either her boots really were flimsy, or the demonic forces of darkness that wouldn't accept blood sacrifices were perfectly fine with inflicting the start of a nasty bunion on any and everybody.

Goddamn demonic forces of darkness. It talked a good talk but she bet it wouldn't even bother trying to steal her soul presently.

Shaking her suddenly heavy head of hair in the darkening twilight, Rosalie sighed, patted her injured foot slightly and then made her way back up again, intending to have another comfortingly self-destructive cigarette to soothe the shamble that was her attempt to sell her soul off to a bidder that couldn't be less interested in the scraps remaining.

American mass publishing had disappointed her yet _again_. It was getting kind of pathetic how often she fell for it, actually.

But then, just as she swung to her right and stared blearily at the cluster of trees before her while lifted her cigarette up for another drag of darkness and sweet burning fire--

Just a little ways beyond her, in the darkness beyond of her head-lights--

In a place her vision couldn't reach, in a patch of shadow that teased her senses near sensually--

She thought she heard someone-- or something--

_like a hyena prowling about; the snapping of barbed and piercing teeth_

It sounded like a snicker half-suppressed in the darkness. And with her heart suddenly feeling as though it had caught between her knees, she found herself wondering if death was coming for her already.

Damn it, maybe she really _was_ stuck in a Stephen King novel after all. This wasn't Derry, Maine, sure, which mostly eliminated the possibility of being killed by a storm drain-- but it was dark and she was alone and that was a recipe for disaster if ever she had heard of one. And if she made it out alive, she swore then and there, she'd do all her brooding in the light. With a shot-gun in her lap. And possibly a few bibles strapped to her dress once she recanted for all previous sinning.

Even as she edged back into her truck with a wary glance at her surroundings, however, Rosalie had to acknowledge that she'd found nothing more than phantom laugh to scare her off. It could have been just a figment of her hyperactive imagination, really. Just her imagination-- and the desperate and increasingly ill-conceived wish that something-- _anything_-- interesting would happen in Forks, even if it eventually cost whatever scraps of herself she had left.

Somewhere beyond her, another, nearly human laugh; soft, as though it had been brushed by trees and burnished by tears.

But it _wasn't_, she reminded herself ferociously. Because it _couldn't_ to be. Because if the mass media had lied about ever-lasting love forever more, it had surely lied about the possibilities of laughing shadows lurking in the dark, waiting for a moment to sip at the devil's chalice and canter madly at unsuspecting mortal feet

But Rosalie still gave the darkness behind her one last wary look before she slipped back into her truck and silently drove away from the night, her fingers gripping the steering wheel and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Just a few questions for my readers, if you're willing to indulge me with answers. Please feel free to only answer the questions you're interested in, if any. And thank you ahead of time for helping me with forming this series as it goes on! ;)

1. For anyone who's read my work in the FFXII fandom: Is my Rosalie's voice similar to my Penelo's? Should I attempt to differentiate the two more, actually?

2. Is Rosalie as a POV character interesting and believable? I'm still struggling with how to deal with her overwhelming beauty in canon, without inadvertently writing her as a Mary Sue. (God, perish the thought.) Did she come off as Sue-ish at any point in this chapter?

3. Did I actually scare anyone a bit at the end? Or was the tension undercut too much by the humor in the scene? I was trying to go for pitch-black humor but I might have slipped into being just plain wacky.

* * *


	3. Chapter 2

The nice thing about deciding to keep the chapters short in this series is that it's fairly easy to update—far more so than Knots ever was, anyway. And in any case, this chapter (which might be the last for a bit, considering wedding reception plans!) is most certainly for all the lovely people who gave me helpful feedback on this story and Rosalie during the last chapter. And as special thanks goes to **jennamajare** (who betas like an angel!) and to **minisinoo** (for really putting in a _lot_ of time and effort to help this series shape up some more.) You two are seriously like the Florence Nightingale of fanfiction. Thank you once more!

And as always, comments, constructive criticism and questions are always appreciated, especially in a long-fic like this. I really, really, really appreciate hearing from people, especially when I'm just starting out in a fandom. The ego-boost always helps. ;)

**Title: Twitlight, Chapter 2  
Fandom: Twilight  
Series: Twitlight  
Characters/Pairings: Rosalie/Edward, Alice, Cast, Other Pairings TBA  
Rating: Hard R, Later NC-17  
Summary: Sometimes it takes a bitch on heels with an axe to grind and an aversion to sparkles and sunshine to get the job done. An AU of the first book with Rosalie being cast in Bella's place—and being asked to solve a mystery that the original book never had.  
Note: Beware harsh language, sexual innuendo, later sexual actions, and the possibilities of insatiable vampire hunger being temporarily stopped by hard rubber mouth gags.**

* * *

The next day, Rosalie woke up to greet the morning with much the same vim and vigor as ever. That is, she fortified herself with one part obsessive nail polish application, two parts cigarettes and three parts sheer, bloody denial. It might have taken even more of the last element than she wanted but, after crawling home to her startled father ("Rosie, what's gotten into you? You look like you've just seen--"), she had collapsed in her bed to a soundless sleep that relied on it to work effectively. And now, in the morning after, she was ready to confront the day with the same mix of bleak hope and vague terror that had seen her crawling back to Forks in the first place.

Sure, she might have come across a few malicious weeds in the woods last night, assuming that she had really heard what she had thought she had heard and wasn't just in the midst of a really lucid dream or a bad batch of ciggs laced with hallucinogens, or something. And sure, she might have hopped back on Bezelbub's Little Red Hand Basket to Hell as though her ass had been set on fire and then driven home fast enough to leave distinct tire marks on the front lawn that she could still see through her window's lacy drapery. And most damning of all, she apparently had been spooked enough to worm her way back home, scare her father half to death with worry and fall on a tired little tumble in bed without taking shedding either her clothes or her eye-makeup.

Still, Rosalie firmly believed in being out with the old and in with the new. And even as she stared blearily at her reflection in the mirror (noting absently that the smeared mascara from last night rather made her look like an angry raccoon), she realized that she had far greater worries to deal with than angry shrubbery, whatever M. Night Shalayman might argue to the contrary.

"Well, fuck me gently with a chain-saw," Rosalie blankly said. "I've got another year of high school coming."

* * *

When she finally walked down to grab a bite to eat with her father before she left for her first day of classes, it seemed to take him a colossal effort to actually stare in her general direction. And even then, he kept squinting at her, as though she were standing in the direct path of the sun or smuggling a couple of strobe lights in the middle of her old and slightly modified prep school skirt.

"Your mother," he finally managed, half-way through her sipping gingerly at a glass of orange juice and wondering if the half-eaten danish on the table was low-fat, "always used to say that clothes told a story. Now, what sort of story are _you_ trying to tell with that?"

She blinked at him innocently, lightly fluffing her golden-blond hair over one shoulder while trying to bambi-eyes him to death. "Well, it's what I'd wear at my old high school, dad. I'll save the casual clothes for later, since I don't even know what any of my new classmates would consider appropriate. After all, I haven't yet had the opportunity to go and mingle with them."

There. Her explanation was good, succinct, plausible and near-impeccable. It would take a true maestro of bull-shit to smell out this attempt.

Unfortunately-- and Rosalie wasn't quite sure if this was because he was her blood-kin or because he'd been married to and subsequently cleaned out by her mother and thus inoculated against similar wiles-- but for one reason or another, her father wasn't buying it. Instead, Vincent Hale gave her a smile rather like the one she used to wear when she was faced with a college freshman who thought the eighties were back in fashion, that suspenders were actually cool and that doing the Urkel would actually win him brownie points for getting into her panties.

That is to say: outwardly benign. And completely blood thirsty within.

"Oh really?" her father almost sweetly asked. "So, you're telling me you look like a tarted up school girl because you're trying to _fit in_?"

Her smile nearly ached, it was so wide and insincere. She'd met a deserving opponent at last. "You know what the Japanese say, don't you? The nail that sticks up gets hammered down eventually. I figure peer pressure'll get to me sooner or later and make me conform with the general mass eventually."

Another of his eyebrows arched up, with all the grace of a lion descending on a lamb "And somehow... wearing knee-socks, a flimsy sock-puppet of a sirt and a skirt short enough to make the future gynecologists of America cheer fits into that attempt?"

Well, when you put it that way, it really would have been ridiculous if Rosalie had actually been trying not to make waves on her first day. But since this was more a cross between primal warning to the reigning queen bees of her school and an attempt to buck her own suddenly shaky self-esteem up...

Eyes as wide as she could make them, she gave attempting to persuade her father one last shot. "But dad... wearing my old uniform makes me feel like I've got a little piece of home with me, don't you see? As though no matter where I go, no matter what I do, no matter who I see... I've got a certain amazing piece of my history constantly on me, on my skin and near my heart, reminding me of who I am and will always be."

Strictly speaking, it wasn't far from the truth—even if in reality, it was all more a desperate ploy to remind her of what she'd lost more than anything. And for a moment, it seemed to work as her father's face softened almost nostalgically. His cheeks dimpled. The corners of his mouth curled up. His eyes closed. His hand curled around his breast. And his voice...

...Abruptly shattered her dreams but telling her, "That's wonderful. Now wipe some of that blue gunk off your eyes, put on some actual stockings, hike down your skirt and go wear a decent jacket. You could probably catch your death in the Bahamas in that flimsy thing."

Rosalie winced and bowed her head in remembrance for her carefree life of being a well-heeled latch-key kid. It wasn't enough that she was currently broke—somehow, the universe also had to introduce her to an actually parental parent. Could things get any _more_ tilted for her in whatever Twilight Zone episode she had wandered into?

But even as she trudged to her truck of terror half an hour later, having made the necessary adjustments to de-tartify herself (in her father's words), the corners of her wavering mouth still surged up for one more grin.

After all, it was true that her situation wasn't actually on the up-and-up as of yet. She was still in the armpit of the West Coast. She was still in exile from practically everyone she'd ever known and certainly everyone she'd ever cared to meet. She was still lying low in case of... well, in case _of_ a case of. And perhaps worst of all, she was still looking forward to entertaining a curious and potentially hostile school of students who didn't know her from Eve, would eventually want to either drown and/or do her, and likely thought of sunshine as a quaint but unlikely natural occurrence.

She wasn't going to fit in with them, she knew that. And she'd be miserable while she rediscovered that fact, again and again and again.

But as long as she had a spare make-up kit in her bag and the ability to hike up her skirt later on, there was still some part of her that was still the cocky strutter that'd raised hell for a few years in New York. And she was looking forward to rediscovering that inner bitch-- assuming there'd be anything interesting in Forks left to unleash it on yet.

She was still herself, despite what had happened. And even a thousand miles away from where she wanted to be and what had changed her, she knew she wanted to prove it.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, after a pedestrian drive and a stroll across the school grounds that garnered her plenty of looks from nobody of any interest, Rosalie was willing to concede that going all out for the first day of school might have been a tactical mistake. Or perhaps merely-- from all the rather hungry looks she was garnering-- tactical overkill. Judging from the dreary environment, she could have shown up sporting the latest in Eskimo fashions and she'd still be getting the attention she wanted, that she knew she might as well get over and done with.

And right now, with her French manicured nails clenched around her flimsy jacket's collar, Rosalie had to admit that showing up in the latest in Eskimo fashions in Forks probably would have been a smart move. The hell with trying to intimidating the hicks in this school into giving her the space she wanted. She was goddamn _cold._ Hell, even her breasts felt as though they were ready to freeze into impressively pert icicles and break off at any moment.

But before she could stop wincing over the last image, she found herself crossing the school grounds to land in a very generic office and stare at a battle-hardened red-head with all the joie-de-vivre of a coroner and the thousand yard stare of a stunted elk. And even as Rosalie grudgingly forked over her identification papers and answered the questions asked with all the helpfulness of a prisoner of war (giving little more than her own name, rank and serial number even after repeated interrogation), she could feel her spirits dragging down with the mercury in the thermometer on the wall. She might now have a school ID and her new class schedule... but what did it all mean when it came with a severe lack of acquaintances, weather that could have been blasted from Satan's irritated lower intestine and a schedule that was making her retake high school biology _yet again_?

But before she could clutch the papers to her breast once more and have that long-delayed emotional meltdown she'd been saving up for the past few weeks, Rosalie heard the office door open behind her and the light tread of someone superbly graceful enter into the room. And even before the ol' battle-axe had finished introducing that someone,

("Just a friend the school arranged to have you get used to the institution on your first day-- I believe your families already go back?")

Rosalie was already turning to stare her new best friend in the face. Or fate, as luck would have it.

Long, spiky tendrils of dark hair, framing a face that could have served as a fairy's inspiration, if any of them still existed. A pair of large, liquid hazel eyes and a pert, tiny, perfect little nose, capped by a sweet little buss of a mouth that was already parting into a bright grin. A thin, delicate, near pixie-like frame that came (at most) to Rosalie's own chin.

And perhaps, most strangely off all, a certain _glee_ in those liquid eyes that seemed to be sure that in the future, something most interesting was about to happen.

"Good morning," the girl before her murmured, that lunatic gleam in her eyes not abating even a bit. "I'm Mary Alice Brandon and I'll be showing you around on your first day. I do hope we'll be friends!"

It was then that Rosalie realized that she might have underestimated precisely _how_ many notable people this town could hold within it.

* * *

On their getting-to-know-you walk to the school grounds, Rosalie discovered at least three vital things about her newfound, hippy dippy, would-be best friend.

Well, truth be told, given the speed at which the other girl spoke, Rosalie learned quite a few things about her during their short walk. For instance, Rosalie now knew that her friend preferred to be called Alice ("As in Wonderland!"), that she'd lived in Forks for all her life ("I like to be consistent"), that her father had left a long time ago for parts unknown and she lived alone with her mother ("We live in a really estrogen friendly environment"), that she was Rosalie's exact age ("Don't you remember? We met in kindergarten! You were ruling with an iron fist even then") and that she apparently suffered from a deathly horror of all amphibians ("I fear them and their little froggy legs. It's just one short hop to madness!")

But the most important discoveries were as followed.

First, Alice was a lunatic.

Second, Alice was a very _obvious_ lunatic.

But third, Alice was, probably for all of the above reasons, also a very _lonely_ lunatic. And once Rosalie squinted and tried to overlook all of the other girl's fumbling attempts to apparently forecast their upcoming friendship, Alice wasn't... half-bad company either.

"I'm glad we're getting along so well," the other girl cheerfully murmured half-wayh through their walk, swinging a lithe little arm into the crook of Rosalie's elbow, as though the blonde were serving as her escort to somewhere more glamorous than the cafeteria of the school. "I just knew we would, I could tell it. The tea leaves were practically _swirling_ in my cup this morning! Although--" She paused to make a face-- "I guess that could also be because of that new brand of soy milk I used as well..."

Well, say what you wanted about her dubious levels of sanity but at least you were never bored around the girl. And given the funky, hand-painted top and cluster of gorgeous Venetian glass bangles she was wearing, Alice obviously had a flair for fashion and design that the rest of the rustic rubes around them couldn't match.

She might have been insane but at least she was insane with _style_. Rosalie could more than work with that.

And so, Rosalie smiled the tight smile of a fellow budding social pariah at Alice-- she'd noticed the looks her fellow school girls had been shooting her and her rather form fitting outfit since she walked in, after all, and she knew she wasn't going to be popular with this set. But just because her sensibilities didn't play well in Peoria didn't mean someone edgier couldn't understand her.

"So," she said lightly back, touching Alice's back as though she were pressing against a talisman that could keep the weight of the stares from overwhelming her. (Maybe she wasn't as ready to be Queen Bee again as she thought she would.) "What do you do for fun around here? Any nightclubs? Restaurants? Gay bars? Even theme parks? Tell me you have someplace you can play bingo with trannies. Come on, Wonderland-- make my day really _happen_."

Though she smiled at the nickname, Alice squinted as she tried to answer the question, as though Rosalie had somehow spoken Esperanto instead of English. "I'm not even sure Forks has any 'trannies,' actually. Oooh! Are they supposed to be miniature trains? Can you ride them if you're short enough? I usually hate going to theme parks because I never get to ride the _really_ exciting bits but this time, I could make an exception!"

It was a vicious struggle but somehow, Rosalie managed not to laugh. "Well, you could try riding them but it's by invitation only. They get annoyed if you jump them out of nowhere. And they're not trains, they're actually... oh, forget it. I don't want to somehow despoil your virgin ears with the awesomeness when I can despoil your virgin eyes later. Come over to my house and I'll eventually show you a few pictures from way back when."

The other girl beamed rather touchingly at that. "Trust me. Give me a few days and a few tarot cards and I might take you up on your invitation."

Score one for the new girl, Rosalie thought drolly. Only thirty minutes loitering around school property and she had already won herself an accomplice. Maybe later, they'd have a slumber party and hold hands and talk about the cute boys they wanted to (and in her case, probably already had) banged and swap their deepest, darkest secrets.

Of course, her own secret was deep and dark indeed, while the most horrible thing Alice had ever done in her life was probably to have flailed in frog fear during a particularly embarrassing moment. Not really on the same scales of life-wrecking unhappiness, that.

Still, shaking her head to shake loose the images, Rosalie stopped just before the heavy doors that signaled the entrance to the cafeteria, on the less-than-primrose path they had already gone past. "But seriously, Wonderland. What the hell _do_ you guys do for fun around here? So far, it's been all liquor stores, pretty trees and a depressing lack of metal detectors. Where's the hope for the female population of Forks, anyway?"

And with a smile that showed rather more teeth than Rosalie thought Alice had, the smaller girl pushed her through the cafeteria doors. "I was actually saving this moment up for another time but... well, since you insist on a bit of excitement, I figure it might as well happen here."

* * *

And _that_ was the first time Rosalie met the Cullen brothers.

Regrettably for her own health, that wouldn't be anywhere near close to the last.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Oh Alice! I absolutely loved her in canon and I couldn't help but place her in a role that would give her more screen-time in this fic. She most definitely isn't a vampire here… but she'll play a very important role in coming chapters. And believe me when I say that she hasn't lost an inch of her compassion or her cunning in this adaptation either.

And now, I'm gleefully trying to build up a bit of suspense about who my Cullen brothers actually _are_ (half the fun of AU fics are throwing your readers curve balls, after all) and already planning on the next chapter. I've been sticking quite closely to the outlines of the Twilight novel so far but as this (if this) series develops, I plan to throw in a few more mysteries and plots that the original book didn't have…

* * *


	4. Chapter 3

I know that prudence should dictate that I actually wait a day before I post the next part of Twitlight up, seeing as how I've put another fic up yesterday. But with chapter 3 finally finished and almost begging me to be posted I couldn't resist temptation... especially not when it finally manifests with Rosalie having not just one but _two_ rather fraught encounters with the Cullens. And for one reason or another, our favorite family of vampires that sparkle in the sun came out just a little bit more sinister in this conception than in the original canon...

And as always, reviews, comments and constructive criticism are _very_ much appreciated. I really enjoy just knowing people are reading this so if you are (especially on fanfiction-dot-net), please review. It truly does help keep me motivated in the writing process!

And much much much much much beta-ing love goes to **moontear** and especially **safiregriffon** for their help with dialog between Rosalie and a certain Cullen. Thank you both for making the process of writing this far more enjoyable and far less torturous than it could have been.

**Title: Twitlight, Chapter 3  
Fandom: Twilight  
Series: Twitlight  
Characters/Pairings: Rosalie/Edward, Rosalie/Emmett, Japser, Alice, Cast  
Rating: Hard R, Later NC-17  
Summary: Sometimes it takes a bitch on heels with an axe to grind and an aversion to sparkles and sunshine to get the job done. An AU of the first book with Rosalie being cast in Bella's place—and being asked to solve a mystery that the original book never had.  
Note: Beware harsh language, sexual innuendo, later sexual actions, and the possibilities of insatiable vampire hunger being temporarily stopped by hard rubber mouth gags.**

* * *

_From the last chapter_:

And _that_ was the first time Rosalie met the Cullen brothers.

Regrettably for her own health, that wouldn't be anywhere near close to the last.

* * *

There were three of them, three brothers Cullen, with hair that ranged from a midnight dark to a bronze-burned brown to a shade of pale and honeyed blond that rivaled her own locks for outrageously-over-described beauty. Heads bent studiously over their books, eyes lowered to meet their own clasped hands, they could have been monks from another life, were it not for their unbelievable and unnatural delicacy. And even though she was rooted to her spot in the dingy school cafeteria from a distance that was somehow both strangely far and unbearably close, she could see that they were all enchanting, extraordinary, nerve-shatteringly exquisite-- a person could pick their preferred adjective with abandon, without fear of overstating the splendidness unfurling before her eyes now.

If she had been able to speak, she might have turned to Alice and asked the girl to give her the number to their plastic surgeon. But for reasons even she couldn't quite grasp, she stood rooted to her spot, her tongue still in her mouth, her knees already beginning to waver in front of her feet.

For there were three of them, three brothers Cullen, grouped around their cheap metal tables with the ease of a trio of young gods gracing the people around them with some sort of obscure and unnerving charity. Even from half-way across the room, with her throat burning and her eyes beginning to tear as she tried to look away from them, she could capture every detail of their appearance, as though they had long been branded in her and were only now escaping.

"So what do you think?" Alice murmured into her ear, soft lips lightly brushing against prickling skin, pixie fingers a cool counterpart to a rapidly flushing cheek. "Wouldn't you say that they're worth the price of any admission? And maybe even the trip you've made here?"

And perhaps Rosalie would have even agreed, if something hadn't paralyzed her even further, robbing her not only of her ability to speak or act but even to even _think_ clearly.

Because just then, one of the brothers Cullen-- she didn't know which one, she didn't know their names, however much a few jumbled words felt as though they were trying to escape-- raised his ethereal eyes to hers. And somehow, for all the distance they had incurred just then, it felt as though something

_tired of trying to_

was trying to

_perfect, unyielding_

claw its way

_exactly my brand_

through her

_if i could dream_

goddamn _ribcage_--

_and then there was brilliancy_

Desire held the moment still and only the fear that slammed into her was enough to shatter it afterwards.

* * *

Afterwards, in whatever patch of secluded school property she made her way to first, she found that her hands were trembling too hard to light the cigarette she had raised to her lips already. It didn't matter that this was one of the last left in a pack that she'd have to ration for god knows how many more weeks. It didn't matter if her hands trembled so hard that she knocked her own lighter over thrice or if her hair was barely veil enough to protect the shivering flame from being snuffed out

If she have needed a good, decent, brain-melting drugging, it was now. And because whatever it was that had happened back in the cafeteria she had left behind hastily... Whatever it was that had happened in the building she still felt too ridiculously cowed to go back into... Whatever was going on in her own _mind_ that she couldn't control or keep contained...

She didn't know what it was. She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't even know how she was going to explain what she had done to Alice or to her father or to her teachers or even to any of the students who had watched her run from the building as though all the Boschian imps of hell had been chasing at her heels.

Hell, she didn't even know how to explain what she had done to herself. And perhaps that was the most terrifying thing.

All she truly knew was that if she had stayed in that building for even a second longer, whatever thin line of sanity she had managed not to cross and whatever armored shell of indifference she had managed to construct around herself would have shattered with the perfect clarity of a crystal in the face of such...

_their perfect faces duplicated as though by threes_

Such...

_ none of them akin to each other_

Such...

_ but all of them near frightening in beauty_

Such keening _familiarity..._

Fuck did she need a lit cigarette. She'd never even seen any of them before and... God, if only there was some way to get a decent nicotine fix in this never-ending rain, she'd be willing to get down on her knees...

And then, Rosalie rediscovered the full meaning of the proverb that warned people to be careful of what they wished for when the pearl-dull drizzle above her was interrupted by the stately sweep of a dark umbrella, and an elegant hand curved in front of her side, to offer her a lighter gallantly.

It was a gesture that could have come from another century, it was so chivalric in its simplicity. Somehow, though, she had a feeling that she would have appreciated it a lot more if it didn't startle her so much that her cigarette had slid right past her hand to the slick grass below her, leaving her with nothing more than a desert-drenched mouth and far-from-stable knees.

More than anything, she had a sudden compulsion to run again.

But for one reason or another, she had an idea that she wouldn't be allowed to stray too far from here.

There was, perhaps, only one thing left to do. But thankfully, it was something she tended to do superbly.

"Hello stranger," she whispered with a voice gone hoarse and high all of a sudden. "Do you have anything to say to me?"

* * *

For a long, dreamy moment that lingered like a burning line of liquor at the back of her throat, she actually found herself hoping that the boy (or man)

_or creature?_

behind her might leave her be entirely. After all, perhaps he had gone into the rain merely for a whim as well-- not to hunt her down like a cultured wolf, to pin her to her back and press his muzzle to her throat and rip whatever secrets he could excavate out of her body. Perhaps he had come here for his own cigarette break. Perhaps he had a habit of cutting class. Perhaps he enjoyed the sensation of depriving others of nicotine while pretending to help them acquire it. Perhaps he liked the feel of wet grass clumping under his feet. Perhaps he...

"So many things," he murmured, voice soft and liquid and near melodic as it caressed the inner curves of her ear, penetrated the marrow of her bones and the tendons of her flesh. "Only I'm not sure where to begin... or even who you are, truly."

Rosalie had to forcibly suppress the urge to ask him if he had to take acting classes to cultivate a voice deep enough to put Barry Manilow's to shame. It was either that, or give into her urge to leap right out of her prickling skin and run into the hills screaming.

With all the self-control and self-possession she had ever had, however, she desisted. Instead, she slid another cigarette out of the pack with hands that almost didn't disgrace her and held it out to the man who had shifted behind her, keeping her eyes focused on the grass before her soaking heels. Somehow, she had the feeling that keeping her composure while actually looking at him would be about as effective as trying to keep from turning into a pillar of salt while fleeing a city condemned in the old Testament.

So instead, she pretended to be fascinated by the dew below and forced herself to speak in a tone that might pass for normal if he was a bit deaf. "You know, usually people don't have to stalk me to get my name. A simple 'hi, how are you, how do you do' does the trick pretty well, actually."

A chuckle came from unnervingly close to her, stirring the hair curling around her ear softly. "Ah," the creature behind her murmured, "you must forgive me. We have just been introduced-- or are about to be, at any rate-- and already I'm bungling matters throughly. Shall we, then, say hello properly?"

So he could know who she was? So he could try and form a relationship of some sort with her? So he could even follow her home sometime soon, and ask to be let in?

She had never met this man in all her life before but somehow... somehow, given what she had just gone through, she had the idea that keeping her distance from him would be ideal.

Instead, she smiled coyly at her own feet, playing the coquette even though it should be impossible for him to see her face. Maybe unveiling a little bit more of her true self would make her all the less alluring.

"Oh," she crooned, summoning all her time in proper society brunches long past up, "must we? But I find these things so tiresome. I came to Forks to get _away_ from social obligations, not create new ones already."

He gave a noise that was not quite a sigh but shared the same dimensions as one, even as she heard him opening his lighter to finally provide her cigarette with a lasting light. "Mmm, that's an interesting response. I must tell you, when I usually offer to give my name, most people don't turn down my offer. Especially when they share your gender or age."

Cocky bastard. She might not know his first name and she refused to look his face for fear of the breakdown that could still be coming... but she was already taking a dislike to him. Did he seriously think he was going to fluster her _that_ easily?

Never mind that he already had; she was perfectly willing to overlook reality when it came to guarding her own overburdened ego. And she'd embarrassed herself enough for the day to try and hold her own finally.

Snapping her fingers back to finally bring the cigarette he had lit to eager lips, Rosalie tossed her golden curls back imperiously. "Well," she said coldly, "you know my type of girl. We like to cultivate a sense of mystery."

The man behind her shifted his stance in response, though his breath didn't quicken in the slightest. In fact, looking back, Rosalie realized that though he was pressed quite close to her, she couldn't recall hearing him breathe.

But she was hearing him laugh again after a moment's pause, softly enough to be taken for a breath. And on the heels of it, he spoke once more. "Your type of girl? And what, precisely, does that mean?"

He wasn't saying anything she hadn't all but invited him to say, but her lips tightened in to a firm, white line anyway. "Don't worry. Listen to the gossip when it comes around to me and you'll see. I mean... unless you like _that_ sort of thing?"

Bastard just might, actually. It'd be just her luck if he had a fetish for bad girls, or something.

The creature made a considering noise, as though trying to decide that matter for himself now. "Now _that_ is a particularly bleak innuendo. Are you trying to drive me away from your tarnished virtue or..." And clearly he did breathe, because she could now feel him doing so near the curve of her ear, as though sampling the fragile skin there. "Or... perhaps drive me to seek you out more eagerly?"

She sucked on her cigarette spitefully. _Fucking_ cocky bastard. If she could have turned around to look him in the face without immediately running away, she would have been tempted to slam her knee against a _very_ delicate part of his anatomy.

Instead, she fixed her best sneer on her face, sure he would get the message even if he couldn't see her. "So this is normal for you-- girls sniffing after you or doing their best to make you sniff after them?"

"Well," he replied, voice rather droll, "it is somewhat more normal than to have them run from me."

Oh, poor baby, her heart really bled for him. Which must have been why her voice was now full of sugary sweet sympathy. "Perhaps you just never found the right sort of woman to do that for you?"

From the amusement in his voice, he had clearly understood her hidden meaning, and possibly even agreed. "No, not until now. Which means, of course, that in more ways than one... our meeting today must be serendipity."

She could feel her lips tightening again, the blood draining from her face slowly. "I have absolutely no idea what you mean."

And for the first time in all her life, his fingers found his way to her, lightly falling on the trembling curve of her shoulder, as though trying to be soothing. "Maybe not," he whispered, sounding almost sad. "But do you really believe that mere ignorance will actually alter anything?"

Her mouth worked for a very long time around her cigarette after that, without a word escaping.

"Why did you follow me out here?" she finally asked, when she could speak without the help of smoke. "Why do you even care about me?"

The quiet elegy in his tone faded away, leaving merely questions floating in the air, none of which he answered directly. "I came because I saw you were in a state of distress my family caused, though I do not quite understand why yet. And whatever else I may be, I am not yet scoundrel enough to leave a damsel in distress by herself."

She had to smile at the seeming sincerity of those words, however bitter the curve of her lips might be. "Trust me, I'm not in distress. At least, not in any way you can help. And usually, I'm the damsel _distressing._"

His fingers contracted for a moment against her shoulder, as though he were silently laughing. "That depends on the perspective from which you stand, really. And the perspective I've been allowed to take now has been quite... interesting."

She blinked hard at that, her fists tightening and inadvertently crushing her cigarette, more flustered than she wanted to be. But as interesting as this encounter had been, she was more than ready to move on to another person, place, and possibly country. "So now I know you've followed me here and as you can see, I'm very dramatically taking a smoking break. So really, you can leave now. Shoo. Run along to your pack. I think I can already hear them howling."

His laugh was nowhere near silent now, as his hand slid off her shoulder to trace the air about her arm, pointing to the stubborn flame of the cigarette left dangling near her knees. "Wrong archetype, I'm afraid, though I do love the imagery. And truly, I cannot bring myself to go back until I am allowed to escort you to your next class as well. I'm afraid my conscience will settle for nothing less chivalrous here."

Never mind that she still wouldn't turn to look him straight in the face. Never mind that she had run away him and his family in the first place. Never mind that she wouldn't even turn to see which one of them she was talking to, for fear of whatever had happened to her taking over once more-- and perhaps worse than ever, due to his new-found proximity.

And perhaps it was allowing all of the above and more that made her do what she did next. After all... whatever she was, she wasn't a coward. She had never given up without a fight before and she wasn't about to start here.

So she tapped her her remaining pack meaningfully and sighed out her next few words. "Sorry, lover, but I might be ditching whatever class comes next. Nicotine's really habit forming, and all. Or at least, that's what the surgeon general tells me."

"I'm afraid," he murmured, sounding petulant for the first time since she'd met him, "that I have not the honor of bearing that title yet, madame. And though I'm sure that general knows what he speaks of, I can't leave until you tell me what truly distressed you. Especially if I don't know if..."

And there he was, suddenly so intimate, with something that resembled shuddering breath close to her ears--with fingers that felt more alive than even her own skittering up and down her aching arms, chasing the light of her cigarette burning...

"...If such an act of passion between us will recur frequently."

Somehow, he had the gift of making a meltdown in a dingy cafeteria sound as sensual as a tussle between the sheets.

She croaked her answer through a voice that was far, _far_ dryer than it ought to be. "Absolutely not. As long as you give me some damn _space._ Otherwise--"

And at that, she turned, fingers clutched around her cigarette and her lips pursed, throat burning steadily at the smoke that weaved through the intimate interiors of her body-- only to be released in a dark plume of smoke, towards where he had been previously. And those eyes that she had been careful to keep closed tightly opened only at the touch of his palm coming again on her shoulder, with his lips once more lightly murmuring into her ear.

"I'm afraid you may have missed me--" was what he said, voice sounding almost sincere.

She found that her eyes, sparkling with satisfaction, opened themselves effortlessly.

"I wasn't trying to aim for you," she said at last, still blinking at the suddenly open expanse of bright light before her-- at the air cleansed by the rain that had just stopped drizzling, and the clear blue sky finally free of the damp, black canopy that had once shielded her. Had the world always been so beautiful? Or did her own sense of relief transform it temporarily?

"I was," she murmured softly, "just trying to clear some room for myself."

And then she walked away from him, her legs working for all they were worth as she took step after step after precious step from him, not even turning her head to look back at the stony face of her phantom and unknown Eurydice.

"Don't call me," she said. "I'll call you. As soon as I give a damn about what happened here."

And his soft laughter punctuated every step she took afterwards, as though he knew something she could not know, and would not even dare dream of.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Does anyone want to venture a guess as to which Cullen Rosalie had her encounter with? In any case, I had a hell of a lot of fun finally bringing them into the picture-- and am looking forward to building up both Rosalie's mystery and her connection to them and to Alice. And as always, I have a few questions for my readers, if they don't mind answering them. ;)

1) Which Cullen did Rosalie have her encounter with? And of course, did you find their talk together interesting? Sinister? Creepy? Sexy? (My beta-reviewers disagreed on this point so I wanted to know what you thought!)

2) I think I've been developing a very distinct character for Rosalie as this series goes on-- in fact, though there are similarities, she has a far sharper edge than most of the other female characters I've written before. How do you feel about her so far? Do you really think she's as much 'bitch' as she portrays herself as-- or that she's using the term as a sort of protection against being hurt by anyone who comes into contact with her?

Thank you ahead of time for being so patient with me!

* * *


End file.
